


Shadwell Well Well, What Do We Have Here

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Job, Dubious reasons to sleep with Sandalphon, F/M, Fluffy, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Retirement, Threesomes, ecstasy of angels, happy couple, sandalphon being the tallest angel in biblical lore is always funny to me, shoulder kink question mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Shadwell and Madame Tracy are enjoying retirement, thank you, until Mr. Sandalphon shows up at their door looking for Aziraphale. And since Madame Tracy is a friend of Aziraphale's, she asks Shadwell to distract him. Seems the duo decides that sleeping with the angel should do it.





	Shadwell Well Well, What Do We Have Here

**Author's Note:**

> I joked about making Shadwell/Sandalphon fic and here we are! I don't know either.

Retirement did the body good. Not that life was particularly hard, perhaps just _complicated_ as the last remaining Witchfinder Sergeant of the _extensive_ and _exhaustive_ and _definitely not made up—_actually true, but don’t tell him—Witchfinder army. A man uses a lot of muscle writing records and thinking of names to fill the rosters. Imagination is limited, boys, and the whole bucket sprung a leak around ’79.

Still. Retirement was kind. Kind and soft. Kinder still in a wee little bungalow out near the country where that Jezebel—ah, retired Jezebel, let’s remember—made lambs with mint jelly and planted basil and sometimes danced naked near the shelter of the garden hedges during full moons to rile him up. He’d counted her nipples, you see, so he was certain, well…well, not that he had to say anything about _that_.

Retirement also had a lot more feather boas than previously anticipated. And less needle pokes. And improper uses of holy fingers.

It was good. That’s…it was good.

It had been some time since Things That Shan’t Be Named or Called Apocalisn’ts had passed. Long enough to allow weirdness about flaming cars and big damn demons crawling up from tarmacs and Southern Pansies sitting in bodies that don’t belong to them to fade from proper memory and go about making themselves into strange dreams for quiet Sunday mornings. He all but forgot that there were antichrists making a whole damn angel appear out of nowhere and the embodiments of the four horsemen had been bested by wee bairns like some schoolyard scuffle. He’d forget about his failed Witchfinder Army protégé too, except Madame Tracy demanded they go have tea with them once a month.

No, Retired Sergeant Shadwell didn’t have to think of all the things that got him through that bad spell—er, moment—in Tadfield near four months ago, which meant he had more time to grow his fondness of newspapers and clipping them apart and putting them into scrapbooks, because habits die hard and, to be frank, he was getting a little bored.

Not bad bored. Good bored.

Is there a good bored?

Shadwell considered the merits of good and bad bored while he sat at a little glass table out back, a cup of now-cold-and-over-steeped tea on a flowery saucer plate. He titled to the left and fished out a burlap pouch with sunflower seeds all shucked and salted and tipped them into his hand for a nice munch. Was a time he’d scoff and squawk at bird food, but he had to admit the taste was pleasant enough and he enjoyed chewing them and spitting out the shells, except he’d made a mess too many times and the woman of the house had switched to this brand in recent days.

He’d probably merry her if he weren’t so certain of marriage being some miserable pagan ritual meant to seduce and embarrass him.

“Sergeant Shadwell, d’you a moment, dear?”

Madame Tracy’s voice popped in over his left shoulder, soft and sweet as ever. Shadwell clapped the sunflower seeds to his mouth and dusted salt off his fingertips and white scruffy beard. He turned to greet her, anticipating something sweet like a little peck to the cheek, but choked and coughed into his fist when he noticed she wasn’t alone.

“This is Mr. Sandalphon, dear,” she continued, touching the man’s arm. The big bastard was in a burnt orange suit with a tiny gold accent on each lapel. He thought they might be crosses, if he squinted quickly, and he might be right. “Come in to see if we’ve seen his friend, Mr. Aziraphale.”

“Mr. Azira-Who-Now?” he asked roughly around the angry thorn in his throat from too-dry seeds and liberal salting.

Apparently, that was just the right question, because Madame Tracy lit up like he’d promised to take her out dancing. She even placed a freshly popped tin of condensed milk right there on the table by his hand and touched his cheek, which was like a kiss as anything. 

He wondered if Madame Tracy did indeed like to go dancing. Not been a decade or three since he’d cut a dancefloor, that can be certain, but he had a slew of partners back in the day, oh aye, pretty things with stout shoulders and, y’know, hips and such. 

He wondered if Madame Tracy had opinions on disco….

The Mr. Sandalphon fellow had sat down right across from, just as you like, and was going on about something while Shadwell concerned himself with the late musings of Donna Summers. He put two bushy eyebrows together and his tongue betwixt his teeth and nodded once, twice, a real discerning look of attention and coy understanding.

“Come again?” he asked, cutting Mr. Sandalphon off.

The man huffed, sealing his mouth before he opened it again. He was a fish-breather type, it seemed, and it certainly matched the nasally register there of his voice and all. Also, he had this little gap between his teeth, see, just a little, and Shadwell had kept himself amused again by wondering if he whistled through it, so much so that he missed whatever it was the poor sod was saying again.

“Look, I don’t know Azira-uh, _him_ from Adam, y’know[1].”

Except he _did_ know Adam. In fact, seemed they were all acquaintances of the nice young Adam Young. By the look on Mr. Sandalphon’s face, he had similar opinions on the lad, except whereas one had decided they were an absolute ruin of an antichrist and had thrown off a very long battle plan and made quite the ruckus with all those battalions and everybody’s celestial blood was _singing_ for a chance to fight again, the other thought they were just a bit of a nosy know-it-all. 

Good eye for apples, though.

“Well, as I said prior, it’s come to our attention that you most definitely _do _know him, and that you’ve had regular contact with him, and, come on, hey, pay attention!”

Sandalphon snapped twice in Shadwell’s face while he sipped at the condensed milk, ignoring his cup of tea. Shadwell blinked.

“I _am_ payin’ attention, ya git.” He chuckled when Sandalphon sat back. “Goan on about…y’really just come here to go an’ harass a nice old couple?”

“It’s just very important that we find him,” Sandalphon answered, looking all like he was going to stand up and leave when he’d only just got here, hadn’t he? Prissy little thing, weren’t he? “I see it’s pointless to ask. I told Michael this was a wasted effort. I’m—”

Madame Tracy floated back in like a cool breeze with a tray of pink confectionery so-and-sos. She batted her big lashes and popped her mouth in the cutest “oh” as she set the tray down and slid her hands across Sandalphon’s shoulders. Mr. Sandalphon there had sturdy shoulders too, didn’t he? And hips.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked, using one of her performative voices on him. “But we’ve just got acquainted. Won’t you stay and try one?” Madame Tracy plucked a heavy-dusted pink marshmallow cube off the tray and set it dainty-like in his hand. “Made ‘em myself. That one has a bit of champagne in it. And strawberries. You’re not allergic to strawberries, are you, dear?”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” Mr. Sandalphon said, settling in the chair as he studied the cube, squishing it carefully between his fingers. “Er, pine scents.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Pine scents,” he said again, then went about sniffing the cube. “I’m, uh, allergic. To pine scents.”

“I’ll put away the candles then,” Madame Tracy said, patting Mr. Sandalphon’s shoulder.

When she stepped back she started flapping her arms and mouthing in big, obvious gestures, _KEEP HIM DISTRACTED!_ before she pointed to the house and mimed a telephone up to her ear. Shadwell squinted at her, trying to decipher what in the bloody hell she was on about, before she blew him a kiss and popped back inside. Shadwell shook his head and took one of the cubes, squishing it together like Mr. Sandalphon had done. Couldn’t be helped. They were pink and fluffy and bounced back so between his fingertips.

“So….”

Right, now he had a task, and all he wanted was to get a few newspapers, stack them up there, get out the scissors, place them there, and then complain about the weather until he was brought inside for a nip, change his socks maybe and have himself something to do with that little pretty leather number he found in the closet that was just about his size.

“So,” Mr. Sandalphon repeated just before he licked the cube and pushed the whole thing into his mouth, rather slow and deliberate like. Whatever he said next was lost to fluff, muddled further when he ducked his head down and reached for another off the plate.

“Can’t say I got that, laddie,” Shadwell said with a laugh, only to put the marshmallow to his lips and deliberately mirror Mr. Sandalphon, sliding it ever so carefully past his lips and sucking sugar residue off his finger. Bit salty, from the sunflower seeds, mind you. Improved the recipe, actually.

Mr. Sandalphon had three marshmallows in hand, watching Shadwell with a little pronounced _gulp_.

Say what you will about age and no longer giving much of a fuck—retirement, blessed thing—but Sergeant Shadwell could hazard a guess that Mr. Sandalphon there _liked_ what he saw. Mayhaps the sugary treats, mayhaps the man beyond the sugary treats.

There was a time, oh aye, where Shadwell was quite the looker. He thought he retained all that physical prowess, but back in the day he was downright handsome with a prison-inspired ruggedness that got him into and out of and back into all sorts of trouble. With men and women alike, if he were honest. Shoulders and hips. And nipples!

Now, yes, he said a thing or two about his former employer, but that’s because he was a ponce from Soho who acted all holier than thou and thee and that. He might make proclamations on the virtues of women, who probably had better words and proclamations themselves on the matter, but mostly it was a great big crush that had him exercising demons in bookshops.

Great Big Southern Pansy. Mr. Fell, right, with his—

Shadwell’s eyes popped open as he was sucking on the tip of his thumb.

Mr. Fell! Mr. A.Z. Fell! Of A.Z. Fell Books!

It was Shadwell’s turn to gulp.

Trust Madame Tracy to come back in, fixing her curls and a bit out of breath, the proper distraction as Shadwell realized he _did_ know Aziraphale[2] and that him and Madame Tracy had become _quite good friends_ and this bloke was _looking for him_ and there was probably _trouble _and—

“Right, where were we?” Madame Tracy sighed, cutting into Shadwell’s mental spiral through a field of italic thoughts. “Oh, how’d’you like them? Did I get the ratio right on strawberries to champagne?”

Mr. Sandalphon blinked a few times as Madame Tracy leaned over him, indicating the half-empty plate with a nod of her head. He’d gone and had seven of them! Right in a row! Shadwell had been too busy eyeing him and amusing himself that he neglected to see _seven_ uneven marshmallow cubes up and hop off the table and right into his mouth. With nary a problem!

Oh, well, now, there was an idea.

“Now where’s my manner’s run off to, never took your coat,” Madame Tracy said and Shadwell realized the woman had gone and had the same thought, didn’t she? Seduction is a hell of a distraction and _certain relations_ could bring someone ‘round to their side and, either way, since Mr. Sandalphon here looked like he might be part of the poshest mafia Shadwell’s ever heard of and menacing in the most banal fashion after Not-Really-His-But-Definitely-Madame-Tracy’s-Friend, could be a right smart idea to flip him to their good graces.

Good graces, they were kissing.

_Ngk_.

Madame Tracy giggled as she pulled back up, brushing Mr. Sandalphon’s cheek with her thumbs.

“Sorry about that, dear, you had a spot there and it just looked so yummy, couldn’t help myself.” 

She wiped at her lips and stood up again, eyeing Shadwell, giving him a good wink, and went to sit on his side of the table so they could hold hands. Soon enough, Shadwell was blushing just as brightly as Mr. Sandalphon there, when his and hers’ fingers linked together.

“So, where were we?” she asked again, blinking innocently.

“We were, um,” Mr. Sandalphon answered, his voice dark and husky and he had to go and clear his throat to get to speaking rightly again. “I was wondering if you might, um, know the whereabouts…well, you see, we have, um, _information_ about, uh, about, uh, in the area that, um, Azira—”

“D’you like chocolates, Mr. Sandalphon?” Madame Tracy asked, butting in so hard, Mr. Sandalphon sat back like he’d been pushed.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Chocolates? I have a tin I had sent over from Belgium. I’ll just—”

“No!” Mr. Sandalphon huffed and smoothed out his lapels. Whatever he was thinking, Shadwell hoped they’d lopped off the thought right at the head, and then three feet under that, so he was left with naught but idle wonder about sweets and shoelaces. “No, I mean. I mean, no. Thank you. I…meant to…watch my figure.”[3]

“It’s a lovely figure,” Madame Tracy said after a time. “Would you come help me with something?” She rubbed Shadwell’s leg before she stood, touched his cheek, and headed inside, with a quick stop to lean on the door jamb and curl a finger at Mr. Sandalphon. “You too, lovey.”

That woman was a damn heathen!

_God_, he loved her, didn’t he?

Shadwell clapped his hands together before he stood, shuffling around the edge of the table. He let his hand drift just so on Mr. Sandalphon’s lapels, a light touch that he’d learned from watching—studying (stalking, near abouts)—Madame Tracy all those years.

“C’mon. Don’t wanna keep her waiting.” He tugged just a little, noting Mr. Sandalphon leaning towards them. “We don’t bite. Not ‘less you ask for it an’ that’s a promise it is.”

There were warm orange lights for ambience already lit, draped in sheer scarves with little plastic beads hanging off the ends and casting spidery shadows on the wall. There modest cottage had two bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen, a living room, and a “study,” which was properly closed against guest’s peepers, including their new “friend.” Was mostly a storage room at the moment, but some people might have bad ideas about all those fancy appendages and floggers and the likes. There were some real beauties in that collection. Shadwell had a gorgeous line of simple patterned bruises from one on the back of his thigh that he was both proud and ashamed of for liking so much.

Shadwell was caught by his shirt front and kissed to a wall before Mr. Sandalphon had time to join them. He startled, gripping Madame Tracy’s hips, and almost knocked his noggin into the plaster, only a little confused why she was unbuttoning his shirt. Not really _confused_. He knew what they were proposing. Just…startled. Startled was right from the start.

“Did you want a go, dearie, or would you like me to take the lead?”

“Well. _Well_. Don’t I always like—”

“I know you do, love.” Madame Tracy grinned before she got so serious for a moment, cuppin’ his face all gentle-like. “You’re okay with this? I just thought—”

“Not a bad thought. Y’think if he likes us, then—”

“Exactly.”

“Plus, could be kinda fun if—”

“_Exactly_.”

“Bit shoddy.”

“What is, dear?”

“An excuse to sleep with a stranger?”

Madame Tracy papped his shoulder and he feigned hurt.

“We’re doing this for our friends. And you’ll be good about it, too. And also because we want to.”

“Aye, aye.” He rubbed his arm again, crawling his eyes back up her face. “Y’wanna watch?”

It was rare form that he got Madame Tracy to blush, truly blush, even. Shadwell practically growled, finally leaning back into Madame Tracy and kissing up her neck, up her cheek, all around her pretty painted eyelids and penciled-on-eyebrows.

She was a beauty without all that, too, but she liked making herself up, so she said a hundred times, and he was, admittedly, impressed by her steady hand and told her so, even if it was half-muttered into whatever beverage he had at the time.

“Oh, _Mister Shadwell._”

“It’s Sar—”

She kissed him quick and grinned. “Don’t ruin this.”

Can’t argue with that.

They turned as a unit when they heard Mr. Sandalphon clear his throat and knock on the door with a confused look at his hand, like it had gone and performed some rudimentary display of manners all on its own.[4]

“Right,” he started, taking up the doorway like a burnt orange shadow, the hall light illuminating just above his head in a facsimile of holy light. “So, you needed help? With something?”

They descended like wolves. Like lambs, more accurately, lambs to the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And, oh, clothing was removed. Shed away, helped off shoulders with gentle hands and followed after with a kiss and, on one occasion, a bite. Mr. Sandalphon seemed quite keen on this turn of events, shifting himself, moving where they moved him, holding where they wanted to be held. He helped Madame Tracy unzip her dress and placed his lips on her thin collarbone, almost like worshipping the flesh. The more they united, the more they pressed into him, the lighter they felt.

“Oh, it’s been a long time,” Sandalphon mused with a wet mouth to Madame Tracy’s pale stomach. She giggled, all trussed up in her white lace get-up with the garters and the ribbon across her chest. Her tiny hands cupped the top of Mr. Sandalphon’s head and carefully lifted him. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, certainly haven’t. But I was hoping, if you weren’t opposed. My husband, y’see—”

Shadwell went pink as a rose and gulped twice to force down the startled cough that tried to leap out of him. They were not married. Stoutly so. But she said it so easy-like that it made something dislodge in his chest and threaten to kill him in possibly the sweetest way.

Mr. Sandalphon went up to his elbows and looked back at the half-naked Shadwell, looking him up and down. He realized the striped socks weren’t as appetizing as sheer black stockings. The white tank top wasn’t as pretty as that brassiere. He tried puffing out his chest to feel more confident that he was a stud, old and gray, but a stud nonetheless. His confidence lasted seconds before it started to deflate.

“Ohhh,” Mr. Sandalphon said softly, shifting over to take Shadwell in completely, who did his very best not to cover himself like he was fully nude. He reached, and Shadwell stepped in closer, watching Mr. Sandalphon swipe his tongue across his thin pink lip. “Would _you_ like to feel ecstasy then?”

“Ecstasy?” Shadwell said, forking his eyebrows together. He nearly grabbed his groin but patted his belly instead. “I dinnae need _drugs_ to bugger anybody. All workin’ plumbin’.”

That got a laugh. Mr. Sandalphon reached again and caught Shadwell’s hip, sliding him in closer so he was flush with the bed and trapped between Sandalphon’s legs. His hands were warm and soft, the hands of someone who never did a day of manual labor.[5] The squeezed Shadwell’s hips with a surprising strength, and slipped down the waistband of his boxers, till they were trapped at his knees and free to wiggle down to his ankles.

Madame Tracy was already settled up at the pillows, somewhere for Shadwell to see her clearly as he put his hands firmly on Sandalphon’s shoulder. She grinned at him, biting her bright red lip for him, or would soften her face and mouth _I love you_, should he need it.

It’s one thing to think about and another thing all together to be face-to-face with the reality that a proper _stranger_—and likely another <strike>unholy</strike>_ ethereal _creature like Madame Tracy’s friend Aziraphale—was face-to-face with your own member. Shadwell felt properly naked, even in his undershirt and socks and his boxers still scrunched up near his knees. He thought he’d be the one sitting and pulling out whatever it was this fellow had in his pants, and his breath hitched when Sandalphon dragged his blunt nails through the sparse white hair that trickled from his navel down the slope of his paunchy belly and into the uneven grove above his heavy cock.

He was sure he heard something about “you’re so fragile,” before Sandalphon bobbed his head and sucked Shadwell up into his wide mouth.

Shadwell’s toes curled into the carpet. He gasped and reached upwards, only for his hand to settle back on his chest and then move to Mr. Sandalphon’s shoulders, kneading them slowly, deliberately. He liked shoulders. Oh, _shoulders_. Sturdy, wonderful, _fuck_—

Shadwell bounced up on those curled toes when Sandalphon squeezed his balls, rolling them around his sack with attentive care.

His mouth. Something unknowably, otherworldly about what he was doing with his tongue there, or the way his warm, wet mouth tingled so slightly, causing pin prickles to travel up his guts and wriggle across old stretch marks and wrinkles and an odd pit in his chest from the scars from a surgery. The prickles scattered over his back, across his buttocks, and tripped down his thighs, like little lightning bugs across his skin. The fresh bruises from the other night felt better, better, _better. _Like they were being washed away by warm water and a terrycloth.

And then his mouth was gone.

Shadwell reeled back slightly from the lack of stimulation, dizzy with whatever wonderful fuckery was playing with his nervous system. Mr. Sandalphon caught him around the waist and tugged him back closer, until Shadwell could stand firmly on his own two feet. He caught himself in the middle of leaning forward and decided his back wouldn’t twinge and give out, so he continued down until his mouth caught Sandalphon’s, like he was trying to lick the last flavors of wonderful electricity off his tongue.

They scooted back on the bedding as a unit, one cradling the other, until they were nearly in Madame Tracy’s lap. She giggled and spread her legs, so they could come up the mattress a little further.

“You’re a bit sensitive,” Sandalphon said, sounding perfectly breathless when he separated again from Shadwell. “I got the impression you two regularly perform sexual relations on each other.”

“We do,” Shadwell answered in the same panting voice, feeling himself heat up all over again, from his chest to the tips of his ears. “I mean…well, not that it’s yer business…. I mean, it _is_, since ye went and…yer here, I mean. I mean—”

Sandalphon laughed, easy and gentle-like, which seemed like rare form for him. He was resting back on his elbows so he wasn’t putting any weight on Madame Tracy.

“How’d you prefer this?” he asked.

“Prefer…? Prefer. Oh.” Shadwell chewed his lip, still tingling yet. “I, uh—”

“Could he fuck you, dearie?” Madame Tracy asked softly, curling around Sandalphon’s shoulders—_shoulders, _god help him, they were _lovely_—and whispering sweetly against his temple. Sandalphon didn’t necessarily melt, but he closed his eyes and seemed to relax the more attention they paid him. “I’d like to watch, if that’s alright.”

“Not participate?” Sandalphon asked.

Madame Tracy made a little inquisitive sound and Sandalphon pushed himself up so he was kneeling with his chest abreast Shadwell’s. He grinned tugged Shadwell’s neck, kneading him the same way Shadwell had done earlier, his tongue searching Shadwell’s mouth. Then he pulled back again, that same slightly cold, empty feeling left to Shadwell as Sandalphon shifted around and removed the rest of his clothes, even his socks and sock garters in what was fundamentally too fast and too impossible to be real, except that it was.

And then he was on his hands and knees, presented like the perfect gift with his plump ass up in the air and his hands working on Madame Tracy’s lacy underthings until she was slowly freed and her own white silk panty shorts tugged away with the help of soft fingers and lips. She giggled perfectly, perfectly delighted and perfectly comfortable with how things were progressing, while Shadwell was just standing—_kneeling—_there behind them with no action or proper thought across his mind.

It was a very nice buttock. Firm. Big. With mounds of flesh to hold onto and a nice pot belly that swung over the mattress, squishing a short fat cock with little veins of pale white scratching across his ample hips. Sandalphon seemed to notice Shadwell’s hesitation and wagged his butt a little, peeking over his shoulder with a sharp grin. He arched his back and spread his legs a little wider so Shadwell could see a dark ring, inviting him closer.

“I forgot the condoms,” he muttered apologetically. “And the lube. Not a minute, I—”

“You’ll be alright,” Sandalphon answered, his voice distant because he was staring up at Madame Tracy, his face perfectly centered between her legs. “Tell him.” And then his head dipped down and he must’ve been doin’ something wonderful because Madame Tracy melted like Sandalphon never did, her eyes fluttering almost-closed for a moment before they found Shadwell’s face again.

“You’ll be…_alright_,” she whispered, her voice warbling slightly into warm, wonderful tones.

Shadwell was almost jealous.

Except that he wasn’t. He was just wanting. He wanted to join them and he gripped himself in one hand, holding himself in place, while he pushed a thumb into Sandalphon.

Plain unfair, these <strike>unholy holy?</strike> _Ethereal _creatures. It was the same as his mouth, which was already working wonders on Madame Tracy, who was only a screamer when she thought the other person liked it or needed it as an ego boost and was mostly just the softest moaner you ever could hear and it was generally quite lovely and perfect, except now while she was doing her best not to shout so loud, their neighbors might hear. Shadwell felt perfect, stretched and lubed without any help, so warm and inviting it was downright unfair.

Shadwell replaced his thumb with his cock and pressed in, smooth and even, slotting in like he was made for it.

He couldn’t even thrust. Not properly. Not anything that would do him justice. He planted his hands on Sandalphon’s hips, watching him rock back and forth, grinding down on Shadwell and squeezing when he was buried deep. It was almost like _Shadwell_ was the one holding on for a ride, and did his best to time himself so he was at least helping with the down thrust.

Madame Tracy gripped the sheets and tossed her head back, going taut, her bright-pink-painted-toes curling beside Shadwell’s kneecaps, and then her heels digging into the bedding before she hooked one around him and seemed to hold on. Her skin was an anchor, real and warm, as golden light flooded him, coiled around him, pushed through his chest and dragged down his back to ignite low in his stomach like hot lead. He could’ve sworn that there was gold in Sandalphon’s skin, that his back seemed to split open for a _second_ and then seal away whatever strange white feathers he imagined in his moment of bliss.

And then whatever warm hand of light that was around him, humming so loud he was deaf, burning in him pushed harder and he couldn’t even shout as he came inside, flush against Sandalphon, or bolt upright on electricity, or flat on the ceiling, or smashed through the floor and six-feet under the earth, he rightly couldn’t tell.

Madame Tracy must’ve felt the same, for her own startled shout died off into silent wonder.

They think Sandalphon must’ve come too, probably. Hopefully. There was a splash of white gold on the sheets and their minds blinked out at the moment he fell off the edge, so. They must think that he did and that it sucked them together and surrounded them with impossible bright nothingness; pure and clean ecstasy. Oblivion.

The cool damp emptiness afterwards was a sweet balm as Shadwell came back to his senses, curled up around Madame Tracy in their rumpled sheets. He blinked blearily, his head like a block of concrete that would chip away by morning. Madame Tracy kissed his brow, slightly more mobile than he, and perked her head up to see Mr. Sandalphon retying his tie, all dressed and pressed and perfectly fine.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

Shadwell wondered what time it was. The window looked dark beside them. It hadn’t been even noon yet when…_goodness_.

“Sorry for the cut and run. I’ve other places to be and other sources to check.” Mr. Sandalphon smoothed his hands down the front of his suit and smiled. There definitely was something between his two front teeth. It was so bloody hard to see right now. “But thank you for your hospitality and your companionship. I helped myself to some more of your sugary treats. And some of the chocolate.”

Madame Tracy sighed but wasn’t up for words at the moment. Shadwell couldn’t blame her. He felt like he’d been through a marathon twice over and smooshed out like tooth paste on a flat hot rock.

“I may be by again to see if you might remember where Aziraphale is,” Mr. Sandalphon said pointedly, but there was something soft in his eye when he looked at them, both curled up and cleaned off and content. “Perhaps we could have…another discussion?” Mr. Sandalphon checked his reflection in the standing mirror by the door and nodded once. “Until then. Rest easy now. I’ll show myself out.”

He stepped out of the room, likely, possibly, or it was a blink and he was gone, which was impossible. So was many other things and Shadwell had witnessed plenty of the impossible to know, well, maybe they weren’t. He sighed, long and rough and right into Madame Tracy’s neck, where she did the same into his wispy white hair.

“Dinnae think we flipped him,” he mused, his voice so soft and weak and sleepy.

“No,” Madame Tracy answered in kind. “Don’t think we did.”

“You get a message to him before…?”

“Texted,” she answered.

“Mmm.” Shadwell mustered up whatever strength he had to bring an arm up around her middle and hug her. “Good. Good.”

Not that he cared. Except that Madame Tracy did and so, fine, so did he.

“D’you…when he…?” Shadwell started. “Felt like…hours, was it?”

Madame Tracy laughed, her rib cage bouncing Shadwell’s head until he shifted to her shoulder. He grinned up at her and waited for her laughing fit to end, until she was holding her side and moaning at the exertion.

“Ye called me ‘husband,’” he said after a time, relishing the simple buzz as she hummed her agreement. “Were you thinkin’…?”

“Oh, hush,” she answered, lazily kissing his forehead. Which wasn’t yes, but it wasn’t no. And maybe he’d take a step as a lead and go out and get a ring or something. Something awful and gaudy and lovely. But, for now, he hushed, and they stayed in the warm protection of each other’s arms, with nothing on their immediate horizon but sleep and whatever else retirement had in store for them.

[1] He _did _know Azira-who-now, better than he thinks, but memory is funny and he doesn’t care to recall.

[2] Told you so.

[3] This is an outright lie, but Sandalphon really was all twisted up about this visit, which was supposed to be one “hello” and a “have you seen Aziraphale, because we know he’s been in the area and in contact and we’re trying to kill him, you see, you stupid useless humans, God, I wish Gabriel had come with me, but he’s so busy talking with Hell to get the War started up again and oh I miss him, I wonder if his kiss would taste like powdered sugar and strawberry champagne, but probably not because he doesn’t like human matter, even though it is really yummy sometimes, though not as yummy as the sweet, sweet nectar of a bloody field laid waste by righteous fury and a whetted blade.”

Also, he didn’t care about his supposed “figure.” He liked it. He chose it. He was known as the tallest angel and, truly, when he stepped out of this body and inhabited his ethereal form, his was tall and splendid. Now he was short and splendid. He felt sturdy and wonderful. He bet he could nail Gabriel with that body right into his desk and the poor fool would love him for it.

Also, quite a lot of thoughts on sex and food for a reconnaissance mission. Good God, were they flirting with him? It felt like they were flirting with him! These pathetic humans truly flirting with _him_, really? Well, he…well he!

Gracious, he didn’t know, did he? That’s what happens when an Angel makes an effort. Diverts all logic towards, well….

[4] It had.

[5] As an angel, perhaps not, unless he was smiting the wicked in a fiery glory. As a man. And, oh, as a man, once, a long, long, long, long, _long_ time ago. Sandalphon, who had a different name as a man, before he ascended, had rough hands and a gentler temper and loved far easier than he did now. With his hands. With his words. With his beating heart.


End file.
